Extraordinary Measures
by Saucery
Summary: Dean Winchester and his angel boyfriend travel to Britain and vanquish a Dark Lord. A Harry Potter crossover!


**EXTRAORDINARY MEASURES**

**- I -**

* * *

><p>Dean's only here because Castiel insisted, and because there's some kind of bizarre British cult that has an obsession with a red-eyed demon and desperately wants any and all help they can possibly get in eliminating it. After surviving an apocalypse and a stint in hell, Dean isn't even surprised, anymore.<p>

He flicks the collar of his jacket up against the wind, and follows Cas over the icy slush. They waste about an hour walking up and down a street searching for a house that apparently doesn't exist, and just when Dean's on the verge of getting _really_ pissed off, Cas murmurs, "oh," and blinks.

And - there's a house there. _How_ is there a house there? Sure wasn't, _before_.

"Um, sorry," says a frazzled-looking, middle-aged guy, standing at the door with the most embarrassed expression Dean's ever seen on a man. The open door has the number 12 on it, which Dean could've _sworn_ he hadn't seen despite all their circuits of the street. "The Fidelius is acting up again. It's rather old, and I really _should_ get around to renewing the wards, but Kreacher keeps interfering with any and all home improvements, and - "

Dean clears his throat.

"Oh!" Realizing that he's just sort of been rambling while his guests stare at him, the guy blushes. Actually, literally blushes. "Where are my manners? Please, do come in."

He ushers them inside, and Castiel nods politely as they edge past him. Up close, Dean can see that the man's probably younger than he looks, despite the mousy, grey-streaked hair, ratty cardigan and scarred face. His skin isn't wrinkled _between_ those scars, and he has a pair of clear, incongruously beautiful, honey-gold eyes.

Dean doesn't _like_ golden eyes. On principle, but also from _experience_.

Cas. He's doing this for _Cas_.

Doesn't stop him from reminding himself that his Colt's strapped under his jacket, though. Mmm. Pretty gun for ugly folks.

"I'm Remus," says the probably-not-a-demon. "Remus Lupin. This isn't, er, my house. It's Sirius Black's, but the Order uses it as a base, since, well." His voice lowers. "I'm sure Professor Dumbledore briefed you about the situation."

Dean snorts. Professor X, more like. He runs a school for mutants, doesn't he?

"It is a pleasure to meet you," says Castiel, right _over_ Dean's snort, like a society wife covering for her rude - possibly drunk - husband. Dean tries not to feel offended. "The professor and I have, indeed, spoken. He is a remarkable man."

Lupin's face lights up. Just like that. What, is this Dumbledore dude his boyfriend? "Yes! Yes, he is. _Quite_ remarkable."

It sounds like they're calling the guy 'special', which, yeah. No.

"Please," Lupin leads them into a sitting room with dark, over-stuffed chairs that are practically black with fungus. Dean's used to tacky motels, but, _damn_. He might catch syphilis from that upholstery. "Have a seat. Would you like some tea?"

"Got any beer?" Dean hunkers down on a sofa, anyway, since it's not like he hasn't sat on - and fucked _in_ - dodgier places.

Lupin startles, and Dean realizes that those're the first words he's actually said to the guy. "I… might, as a matter of fact. If not beer, then something alcoholic. Since Sirius returned, this house has finally seen the advent of hard liquor." There's a weird, bitter twist to his mouth, for a moment, but then it's gone. "And you, Mr. Castiel?"

"Just tea for me, thank you," says Cas, still working his society wife routine. Seriously, what is _up_ with that?

"What is _up_ with that?" he asks, once Lupin is out of earshot. "You're being all… fancy, and stuff."

"It is called," enunciates Castiel, carefully, "being polite. To one's host."

"Like you're polite to li'l ol' Jimmy, here?" He taps Cas on the chest.

Cas _glowers_.

"Okay, okay. Nothin' little about him. I checked." Dean leers - and then realizes something, something potentially fishy and _definitely_ leer-killing. "Hey, how'd he know you're Castiel, and I'm not?"

"Because, when I spoke to Professor Dumbledore, he was present."

Oh. "So he's met you before."

"Yes. He also knows who you are, since I told him of you."

"Right." Dean jogs his leg. "So, what is he?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Not, I mean, what he does for a living, since it obviously isn't making him any money. Dude's in rags. I mean, _what_ is he? 'Cause he obviously ain't plain old vanilla human."

Castiel studies him. "What makes you say that?"

"Just… something about him, I guess. His eyes. His scars. His - okay, so ordinary people have those, _too_, but not, I'm thinking, in his case. He just doesn't feel right."

"I believe," says Cas, "that it is what the French call, _je ne sais quoi_."

What the _fuck_? "You're not answering my question, Cas."

Castiel looks uncomfortable. "It is not my secret to tell."

"And you can't lie."

"Precisely."

Right. Cas can't lie, and he can't _tell_, but he can _hint_. "So - he _isn't_ human?"

"Wrong."

"He _is_ human. Okay. But he's… not, which makes him - "

"Dean. Do not concern yourself. Remus Lupin is a very good man." Cas draws a breath. "One of the very best."

Which - whoa. _Whoa_. "High praise from an _angel_. What, you've seen his soul, or something?"

"Yes."

Dean _gapes_. "Right. So he's a great guy. 'One of the very best.' Who's the best?"

Cas actually looks _away_, for a couple minutes, until Dean starts wondering whether Cas has abandoned the role of the society wife in favor of playing the shy, coquettish maid. It's kind of spell-binding. It also makes Dean's lizard brain flash on an image of Cas with shaved legs and in garters, which - is probably _why_ it's spell-binding, come to think of it. Or, heh, _come_ to think of it. Why, hello there, new jerk-off material. So_good_ to see you.

But he's still supposed to be talking like a sane non-neanderthal, so he coughs.

Damn, his throat is dry. Then again, thinking sex-thoughts - more specifically, Cas-thoughts - tends to do that to him. "Cas?"

"You are," says Cas, suddenly and _quickly_, like he's ripping off a bandage.

"Huh?"

"_You_. You are." Cas swallows. "The best."

…Uh.

Oh, _hell_, no. Now, he has to _fuck_ Cas. Hard. Hard and _sweet_, hard and _slow_, and he has to taste that _mouth_, that perfect, honest, crazy _mouth_, that obviously doesn't know what the hell it's _talking_ about, because Dean's a bad man, a very, _very_ bad man -

"Dean." Cas is looking at him, again. Cas is _looking_ at him, and his eyes are so _blue_ -

"Yeah."

"You don't believe me."

"Nope."

That tiny little _frown_, and Cas had made him _promise_ not to do anything in public or in other people's houses or in churches or on rooftops or in storage closets or in front of Sam or in any place that isn't, like, all _theirs_, but Dean _has_ to kiss that frown, has to at _least_ kiss that frown, so he does.

Right there, on Cas's forehead.

Cas's frown just gets bigger. "Dean."

"Hm?" Might as well kiss it _again_. Why the hell not, right? Frown, frown, go away, come again _another_ day -

"_Dean_."

And Cas's mouth is so _close_, and Dean's leaning in, just a little, because it's okay to lean in, right? _Just_ to lean in, just to _breathe_, close enough to almost feel, to almost _touch_ -

"Dean…" Cas's eyes are fluttering closed, and, hey, no _fair_, he can't be held _responsible_, now -

"Um," says someone, and Cas flinches away. _Away_, and Dean can't help the aborted growl that escapes his throat.

Remus Lupin is standing there. With a tea tray. That has two cups of tea and a glass of bourbon on it.

"M-my apologies," Lupin stammers, flushing a bit, as Dean tries not to kill him with his glare. "I could… come back?"

"No, please," says Cas, looking like the world's most constipated angel. "Do not leave. Join us."

Lupin stares. The cups on the tray actually _rattle_.

"Not in _that_ way," blurts Dean, because he'll be damned if he lets this dude think Cas is asking for a _threesome_.

And Lupin - Lupin _chuckles_. It's sudden and low and unexpected, but those creepy golden eyes lighten, and he sets the tray down on the rickety coffee table. "Oh, don't worry. I quite understand. I believe you would eviscerate me if I so much as breathed on Mr. Castiel."

Heh. "Well, so long as you _get_ that," Dean drawls, and Castiel shoots him a horrified glance.

"_Dean!_"

"What?" Dean grabs the bourbon - which turns out to be pretty decent, just the _right_ kind of fiery - while Lupin passes Cas the tea.

Dean notices the raw, torn skin beneath Lupin's fingernails, and the tracery of delicate, silvery scars over the backs of his hands and even his_palms_. There's something familiar about that, somehow… Dean's seen scars like that before, he's sure of it. Now, if he can only remember_where_…

"Well." Lupin considers them through the steam rising from his own cup. "Sirius isn't here, yet, but perhaps we ought to begin. Has Mr. Winchester been briefed as to the situation?"

"Seriously, just call me Dean." It's freaky how some stranger with a mysterious identity knows who _Dean_ is, but then, Cas _did_ tell him about Dean. And Cas trusts him. So. The Colt stays where it is. For now.

"Dean. And…"

"Castiel," says Castiel.

Lupin blinks. "I… see." There's this peculiar half-pause, and Lupin's nostrils _flare_, slightly, and it's so subtle that Dean might almost have missed it if he hadn't already been scrutinizing every damn inch of Lupin's appearance and behavior. "We appear to be alike, you and I," Lupin says, finally, and smiles.

"You and Cas are _nothing_ alike," snaps Dean, but Cas lays a warning hand on his arm.

"He only means that he is human, and yet not, just as I am human, and yet not."

"You - " Dean gapes. "No _way_. You can't be a - "

"He isn't," Cas breaks in, hurriedly, squeezing Dean's arm.

Oh. _Oh_. Lupin doesn't _know_. Or - he knows, but he doesn't _know_, the same way Dean can tell Lupin's different, but not what _kind_ of different that is.

"Right." Dean gulps down his bourbon. "Right."

"To matters of greater import," says Lupin, finally, into the silence. "Have you been told about Voldemort, Dean?"

"Red-eyed demon with a stick up his ass? Sure. There was this file, and everything." Dean has actually even _read_ it, not just because of Cas, but because Sam had handed the file to him, in person, and had told him 'not to mess this up'. Whatever _that_ meant. Does Sammy have a Brit girlfriend, or something? He _is_ in London visiting some witch, which is why he isn't _here_, covering the houses-that-drop-out-of-hyperspace angle.

"How would you define 'demon', Dean?" Lupin's face is open, curious. "Functionally? Formally?"

"Say what?"

"They are rival schools of philosophy," Castiel explains, and Dean fights the urge to bury his head in his hands. He _knows_ that tone. It's the nerd-angel tone. Dean genuinely believes that back in angel-school, Cas was that nerdy kid always sticking his hand up and pissing everyone off. "Formalism places emphasis on form as the defining factor of any object, whereas functionalism places emphasis on, well, function."

"Okay," says Dean, slowly. "Translation for earthlings, please?"

Lupin doesn't apologize for being a smartass and bringing up a smartass topic in order to make himself look super-intelligent and _Dean_ look like a caveman, which is just fine, because if he _had_ apologized, Dean would've had to stake the bastard. And he isn't even a vamp. (Probably.) "Ah, that - broadly speaking, Castiel's explanation is correct - although there _are_ significant variations of both theories, in the philosophies of art and mind, for example."

"Yes," Cas nods. "I simply meant to be expedient."

"Of course."

"Hellooooo?" Dean waves his glass. "Earthling, here?"

Lupin smiles. It isn't a patronizing smile, which, again, goes in favor of the non-staking option. Barely. "A demon can be defined as something that appears to be a demon, _in form_, or as something that acts like a demon, _in function_. Which do you think is truer?"

Dean puts his glass down. Sighs. "You're a teacher, right?"

Lupin's eyes widen. "How did you - "

"'Cause you _act_ like one. All preachy and - and documentary-voiced."

"Docu - "

"Dean," says Castiel, "be polite."

"I _am_. Look. You're not exactly doing the bling thing, all right?"

"What?" And Lupin's _confused_. Jesus.

"The bling. You know, the shiny." When even _Cas_ starts looking confused, Dean exhales in frustration. "Jewelry, okay? Finery! Livery! Whatever you medieval bastards wanna call it! You ain't rich, is what I'm saying. _And_ you talk like you're running a nursery. And you're all - " Dean gestures him. " - _nice_."

"Nice," repeats Lupin. He's starting to sound amused, again, like that chuckle's lurking just underneath his voice.

"It's sickening. Mostly because it doesn't gel with something _else_ about you, something I can't put my finger on - "

Lupin stiffens, almost imperceptibly.

" - but you're still nice, okay? Teacher-nice. You act like you're a teacher, so you _are_ a teacher. Those scars don't make you _look_ like a teacher, but that's what you are, right?"

"Yes," says Lupin. His eyes are wide, again, and he's looking at Dean with new respect. "Yes. You're quite right."

"Exactly. So functionalism wins, is what I'm saying."

Cas catches his breath. Dean can _hear_ it, and he knows what it means - it means Cas wants to _kiss_ him, right here, right now, and if he could, he would. If only Lupin weren't here.

Dean glares at Lupin some more.

"You're - yes. That's an excellent example." Lupin sits back, cup of tea forgotten. "In fact, I'd be tempted to use it in my own classroom, if - if I could, without revealing my true nature."

"Yeah?" What _is_ his nature?

Lupin's eyes crinkle, at the corners, like he knows Dean's curiosity is killing him and is finding it funnier than Groundhog Day reruns of_Groundhog Day_. The guy's actually an evil bastard under all that I'm-so-nice-I'm-practically-a-Powerpuff-Girl niceness, Dean just _knows_ it. "Castiel?" Lupin asks. "Do you agree?"

"I do," says Cas, _warmly_, and he's looking at Dean, _just_ at Dean, like he still wants to kiss him. Fuck. "Dean can be extraordinarily perceptive."

Dean can be extraordinarily _horny_, which is why they have to finish this bizarre mindfuck of a conversation and get the hell outta here and screw like Energizer bunnies. The cheap hotel they're staying in even has a bed that might not break. Maybe. Okay, so it probably _will_, but any damages will go on the FBI's tab for Agents Deanster and Kas. Like always.

Lupin's nostrils flare, again, and _this_ time, for no reason whatsoever, he blushes. "Ah. Er. I - I'm sure he is. I mean, I can see that he is. That you both - are," he says. "Very. Um, perceptive."

Huh?

"Perhaps we should… wait for Sirius, after all? He'll be back by tomorrow morning. There's a room upstairs, and I can tell that you two are very, er, tired. From your travels."

"We have a hotel," says Dean, feeling like he's missing out on some important clue. "You don't have to offer us a room."

"It is, in fact, safer for you to stay here while on Order business, and, er. There are. There is. A soundproof charm. On the. Um. Walls." Lupin's getting redder and redder. Any more of this, and he'll turn into some kind of mutant, human-shaped tomato. "There was this portrait, you see, of a particularly unpleasant ancestor of Sirius's, and we had to - well, never mind. I'll summon your bags and things from your hotel. You needn't worry."

"Are you certain?" Castiel has this conflicted expression on his face, which Dean can't blame him for. On the one hand, wild fucking; on the other hand, debriefing. Of the distinctly non-sexy variety. No, wait, Dean _can_ blame him. What the hell is the conflict _for_? The choice is obvious.

"Quite certain. It isn't as though we won't have to go over everything again, with Sirius here. We can do it later."

"Hey, just a sec," Dean interjects. "You don't even know our hotel's _name_. Lemme give 'em a call - "

"That isn't necessary," Lupin assures them, before Dean can even pull his cellphone out of his pocket. "I have my ways."

His _ways_? How the - how the _hell_ can Lupin get their stuff without even knowing which hotel it's _in_?

And maybe Dean's really obvious about how batshit crazy he thinks Lupin is, because Cas touches his shoulder.

"It is all right," Cas whispers. "I will explain."

_Huh_.

Weird, weirder and weird_est_. "Okay, fine," Dean shrugs, and eyes his now-empty glass. "You got any more of that bourbon?"

"You mean the firewhiskey?"

The what? It _had_ tasted real smoky, but - Dean's pretty sure he's never heard of that brand before. He's gotta hop into some duty-free shop and get a bottle. Or two. Or three. There ain't no baggage limit when he's flying Cas Air.

"You'll find some in your room. In the wine cabinet."

Wow. "Thanks, man." This place is _better_ than a hotel.

"Don't mention it." Lupin collects the tea tray and stands up. He's smiling that polite, hesitant and slightly embarrassed smile. Is he embarrassed_all_ the time, or is it just Dean that embarrasses him? By being too American, or whatever? "Your room's upstairs. First on the right. Please, feel free to retire at any time."

"Think we'll do that now. Whaddaya say, Cas?"

"I - " Cas seems thrown by this recent turn of events. And now _he's_ blushing, too, like maybe it's contagious, or maybe because he's thinking dirty thoughts, just like Dean is. He keeps glancing at Dean, these shy, hungry glances, and - fuck. _Fuck_, he's perfect. "Yes, I believe we will."

"Go ahead!" Lupin backs out of the room, at speed, tray clinking. "I'll, um, be downstairs. If you - need anything."

"We won't," Dean promises, and Lupin mutters something that sounds a lot like, _oh, I know_, before he's gone altogether. Presumably in the direction of the kitchen, wherever that is.

Dean doesn't give a damn _where_ the kitchen is. All he cares about is where the _bedroom_ is, and how quickly he and Cas can get there.

So he grabs Cas's hand and heads out of the room, ignoring the spooky gothic bullshit art and the gargoyle-themed decor, not to mention the stereotypically creaky staircase, Jesus, if he didn't know any better he'd think they were the young couple in _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_.

Wait.

"Dude doesn't have slabs in his lab, does he?" Dean says, as they find the room and enter it. Dean doesn't bother switching the light on - just shoves the door closed and presses Castiel against it.

"What?" And there's that little frown again, in Cas's _voice_, even though it's too dark to see his face - but it doesn't matter, because Dean knows what it sounds like - what it _tastes_ like -

"Never mind," he says, and kisses Cas the way he's been wanting to, the way he _always_ wants to, until Cas melts and shivers and sighs.

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><p><strong>to be continued.<strong>  
>Please review!<p> 


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